


the brightest colors fill my head

by seaqueen, wildthings



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Injury (minor), M/M, Self-Indulgent, pure fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-03-26 22:19:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13867173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seaqueen/pseuds/seaqueen, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildthings/pseuds/wildthings
Summary: Alex lights up in a grin, eyes sparkling as he moves across the room towards the drugged Swede. “You think I’m good, Nicky?” He teases, letting Nicky’s grasping hand curl around his hip once he’s within reach; and then carefully pushes him back to stop him from straining the bandaging holding his clavicle in place. “The good stuff in your life?”





	the brightest colors fill my head

It’s not hard to guess where Nicky is, and as soon as Trotz finishes with his post game speech Alex takes the opportunity to slip away from the locker room and head in the direction of the trainer’s room. Stupid idiot played the second half the period on a broken clavicle without even noticing and honestly Alex isn’t even surprised. It’s one of the most Nicky things he’s ever seen from his partner.

Management is still generally trying to pretend like they have no idea that Alex and Nicky are together, even after five years, but the athletic trainer pulls Alex aside as soon as he makes a beeline towards where his partner is.

The lights are at half power when he slides into the room, and Nicky’s sitting with his eyes closed on one of the tables in a sling.

“Hey Superman.” Alex calls, lips quirked in a crooked smile. “They give you good stuff?”

Drowsy green eyes swing toward the winger, expression pulled upward by a slight smile and genuine, half-aware delight to see the captain. “Is that what you’re calling yourself these days?” He reaches out with his good side, trying to summon him closer.

Alex lights up in a grin, eyes sparkling as he moves across the room towards the drugged Swede. “You think I’m good, Nicky?” He teases, letting Nicky’s grasping hand curl around his hip once he’s within reach; and then carefully pushes him back to stop him from straining the bandaging holding his clavicle in place. “The good stuff in your life?”

It’s worth it, in Nicky’s altered mental state to see that toothy grin bloom on Alex’s lips, but he thinks that he’d feel the same way sober, too. The smile tugging at his own lips is fewer than usual, creating a ripple at the corners of his mouth and forming creases at the corners of his eyes. “You could say that.” He goes to shrug, halted by the pain that radiates through the thick fog of the painkillers. He doesn’t wince or make any indication he’s in pain aside from the sudden halt in movement, instead shifting his weight forward again and pulling on Alex’s hip to settle him between Nicky’s knees.

Alex hums happily, laughing as Nicky insistently tugs on him until he’s situated between his knees. “Did say that, _you_ say that.”

He drops a hand to Nicky’s head, tucking his curls behind his ear. “Have to go for interviews Nicky. Had to see you were alright for myself first though. You stay here until done, yeah? Then we go home and we can watch that show you like and eat some of your gross Swedish food.” His smile is soft and fond, a private one reserved solely for the man he’s chosen to spend his life with on and off the ice. “For me, Nicky.” He’s pretty sure if he leaves Nicky alone in here he’s not going to stay put.

Nicky’s lower lip slides out in a pitiful pout, and he scoots forward on the table, moving closer to the captain with only his suspended arm between them. “So soon?” He asks, his voice dropping as he slides his fingertips under the fabric of his shirt. “No one will bother us here.” He half suggests, half demands, hands relishing the soft skin of his partner after such a brutal game.

He is weak to the pout, swooping to bridge the distance between them and steal a kiss. But he carefully slides Nicky’s hand from where it’s creeping under his sweat soaked undershirt, trying not to jostle his bad side. “No _lisichka._ ” Alex says gently, disentangling Nicky from him as he reaches for him again. “Press is waiting. But if you are good, will blow you later when we got home, yeah? Stay here and I come back for you. Will send Burra in to hang out with you.”

“No, stay.” He whines, not liking the way the two activities were suggested so closely to each other. The last thing he needs is an awkward encounter with Burky and Nicky’s arousal to the image of Alex on his knees. “Keep them waiting. They deserve it.” It’s no secret Nicklas Bäckström isn’t keen on the press’s invasion of his life, and now that Alex is well within the boundaries of his life, he doesn’t like them prying at Alex, either. They needed to keep their filthy hands off him.

Alex has to take a step back out of his drugged boyfriend’s reach lest he get dragged back in, because he’d far rather be here with his adorably intoxicated partner then out dealing with the press. Even if they did win and he’d racked up two goals for himself - one off Nicky’s assist, before the trainers dragged him off the ice during the second intermission. “Probably.” He says agreeably, staying out of Nicky’s reach. “But still gotta do it. Stay, okay?”

The captain keeps a careful eye on him as he backs towards the door, then sticks his head out the door to bellow for André and Tom.

They come tumbling in a minute later already back in their street clothes, sliding past Alex into the room and making a beeline for the injured Nicky. “Don’t let him leave.” The captain orders them, getting a very serious nod from Tom and utterly ignored by an already chattering in Swedish André. Confident they can handle a drugged to the gills Nicky, he ducks out to get back to the locker room before PR came looking for him to yell.

“Your baby-sitters are here, papa.” Burky greets him in Swedish, and Nicky shoots the rookie a suspicious look as he climbs off the trainers table and awkwardly shifts when he stands; the blond still isn’t quite comfortable with them being here, but it’s too late now. He’d much rather be in the company of one Russian captain than these buffoons.

André has his phone out like they’re a group of girls in a club, and Nicky is too intoxicated to care if he’s recording or not.

“Who’s your favorite son, papa?” Tom asks half-joking as he guards the door. “It’s me right?”

“No,” Nicky answers swiftly, voice slurring and eyes not quite meeting either of theirs. He’s staring behind Wilson at the floor, working out a plan while maintaining a deadened expression and an easy conversation. “Hate all of you equally.” Tom and Burky both look offended, and Nicky grins at them both like he’s just gotten away with murder.

“I think I like him better when he doesn’t smile.”

“Shut up, I’m sending this to Ovi.” Nicky perks up at the mention of the winger, suddenly remembering his train of thought from before. Right, he’s trying to escape to Alex.

“If I had to pick, I would pick Latts.” He says, shrugging a little and regretting it instantly when the pain recurs from the motion. “He doesn’t hold me against my will.”

They both stare at him for a long moment before he manages to slip out the door. The conversation devolves into an argument about the three of them, and Nicky’s left unsupervised long enough to slip into the locker room full of reporters who are all circled around Alex. The center creeps through the locker room behind them, tactfully avoiding being seen by any of the press gathered for the great eight.

Alex is in the middle of answering a question about Willy’s goal in the third when he sees Nicky slink in the room - neither of his babysitters anywhere to be seen, which, honestly, Alex should have expected. His center is crafty like that even on the heavy painkillers the trainers put him on. Both of them come in a few moments later looking frantic. Alex sighs. He'll have to hold their attention more than usual until Tom and André can herd him back out.

How hard can it be to keep him corralled?

The reporters haven’t noticed him yet, and over Vogel’s shoulder he can tell that some of the other guys have joined the effort to help remove a resisting Nicky as Alex beams at the nearest journalist with his best shit eating grin and mischief lurking in his eyes so they pay attention to him instead of turning around.

Beagle pulls at Nicky’s good shoulder, whispering quietly to try to coax him out of the locker room; he’s going to make a fool of himself, Jay says. He’s going to regret his actions tomorrow. Nicky whisper-shouts back to him that he can do what he wants and pulls his body out of Jay’s grip, not wanting to be touched by anyone but the man being interviewed. Nicky twists and complains when a few of the other guys join in, and suddenly, he’s drowning in teammates trying to do him a favor by keeping him away from the cameras. He doesn’t care about the cameras. He just wants _Alex_.

He breaks free after a particularly acrobatic series of motions, especially considering his injuries. He slides past the group of men, who all look in horror at their captain, as the alternate captain sneaks behind the press to his own stall. He starts shuffling his gear, rearranging it because whoever put it away for him - Burra, judging by his guilty look - didn’t arrange it the way he normally does.

Andre is still filming, which Alex will personally thank him for later because then he can properly appreciate the spectacle that is a drugged Nicky determined to escape his watchdogs when he isn't on camera. That, and he can give Beags the thanks he deserves for keeping Nicky off camera - the bad mood that would provoke when Nicky was sober again would probably mean Alex would be sleeping alone for any number of days and he prefers avoiding that. It happens enough on roadies as it is.

Tom is surreptitiously inserting his big body between where Nicky is fussing at his stall and Alex, and Kuzya drifts over from where he'd had his head tipped with Holts to chat with him.

Alex has the best team.

When the reporters have gotten their fill of Alex and the others they were looking for comments from they're summarily banished from the locker room and he sighs in relief and starts stripping out of his clothes.

Nicky watches Alex undress and throws a look to Tom, the kind that dares him to keep in between Nicky and what he wants - _who_ he wants. When the enforcer doesn’t move, Nicky begins pulling his own clothes off, causing a bustle of shifting eyes and grown men shying from a stripping Nicky who isn’t afraid to stare them all down while he does it. He walks calmly to the showers while they’re fumbling and slips inside the door with some relief as the steam and hot water clings to his bruised skin.

“Thought you could get away without me? I’d never miss a chance to see this.” He teases, eyes moving across the winger’s body unabashedly.

Most of the team’s already showered, just a few stragglers who’d been tied up with things the same way Alex had; but there’s not at all a question of who’s following him. The boys were probably overmatched from the start, Alex admits to himself. He’d underestimated Nicky’s laser focus that was only enhanced from the opiates in his system. “Hey Backy.” He says, unable to help himself from reaching out for the center.

He traces the already rising color all down his right side where bruises bloom against Nicky’s fair skin from where he’d slammed into the boards from the devastating hit laid on him by the Hurricanes defenseman; the same hit that had fractured his clavicle.  “Should have stayed in locker room.” He scolds lightly. “Going to get your bandages wet, and also traumatize the babies.”

“They have to grow up sometime. Why not now?” Nicky replies, quieter than his more boisterous self had been in the training room. “You could tell them to leave.” His hands reach to rest on Alex’s shoulders, stepping closer. His fingertips drift across the damp skin of his linemate, sliding down his broad chest and stocky stomach. “Won’t be awake much longer.”

He draws Nicky’s wandering hand away from dangerous territory and puts the hand back on his shoulder, then pushes lightly on him. “Where your sling, Nicky.” Alex says disapprovingly. “You need to wear sling so you can heal fast and come back.” He reaches for the soap and fixes his partner with a stern glare. “No funny business in showers. Stay put and you can stay okay, then we go home. Just let me get clean.”

The center stares at Alex for a moment, deciding how serious he is before he retreats just far enough to lean on the wall under the shower head, watching the Russian. “We’ll be here a while if we’re waiting for you to get clean.” He teases flatly, holding his arm as if it were still in the sling. He doesn’t tell Alex he stuffed it into a reporter’s bag when they were busy with one of the other Caps.

Nicky retreats far enough that Alex can take a brusque and efficient shower to scrub the remnants of the game off his skin without being interrupted. “Yes, you very funny Nicky.” He says in a droll voice, sluicing the water out of his hair and then sweeping the fringe back off his forehead where it sticks up from his fingers. “Come on mister kite.” It’s easy to steer Nicky out of the showers, snagging a towel off the rack for each of them and handing one to the center.

Most of the team’s already gone, home to families and loved ones, when they come out of the showers; just a few stragglers still packing up.

The drugs in his system are taking hold even more than they already were, creating drowsiness and laziness where spunk sat before. He holds the towel around his waist, and he takes the pile of clothes handed to him by the audience that watched him shed the clothes, but when he goes to put the clothes on, he finds himself staring at the stall without much energy to continue. He finds it when one of the younger players jumps as if to help him, knowing that he’d rather not have any of them touch him like that.

His hands move slow and inaccurately, but he insists on dressing himself. It’s only when he gets to the button up shirt and jacket that he lets anyone help, and by that point, it can only be Alex. Kuzy produces the sling, stolen back from the reporter during his own interview, and Nicky finds himself breathing a sigh of relief instead of the complaint he might have given had it appeared any sooner.

“Yer a wizard, Kuzy.” He mumbles, not making eye contact with the Russian as he slides the fabric around his neck and through his shoulder, suspending his arm from the strap accordingly. The pressure eases, the pain dulling as the locker room empties out for the most part. “Nu går vi.” He mutters, slurring his words like a drunk. One of the trainers comes up to Alex and hands him a bottle of pills, and Nicky hardly notices. Maybe he should have eaten more before the game.

Alex does up the buttons on the Swede’s shirt efficiently and tucks Nicky’s tie in his pocket, folding Nicky’s jacket over one arm. The sling’s back on his arm cradling the broken side of his body much to Alex’s relief, and he shoulders both of their bags and tucks Nicky’s phone into the pocket that isn’t containing his own. “Night орлята!” He calls cheerfully behind him as he steers a flagging Nicky out the door towards the car. “No one bother Nicky for at least three days or I will end you!” He adds as the door slams shut behind him.

The center hangs off Alex loosely, throwing more weight against the winger than he’d ever admit out loud, not wanting to come off as incapable of handling himself under the weight of the drugs. “I need my skates.” He says suddenly, pulling on the forward in the direction of the iceplex. “We gotta go back.” Even though it sounds like a drug-induced hallucination, it’s a need that stems back to his childhood, when he’d lay in bed with the weight of the blades on his feet.

It’s much more dangerous than a favorite blanket or stuffed animal, but intoxicated Nicklas wants to have his childhood comfort back as he begins to feel the residual fringes of pain filtering back into his awareness.

Alex catches Nicky gently as he tries to go back into the arena. “You don’t need skates _lisichka_.” He says easily. “Have me, yeah? Will even keep Ovi off bed tonight. It’s time to get in car and go home.” Determined as he is, Nicky’s still pliable under Alex’s hands and comes as he’s continued to be directed in the direction of the car. Alex opens the door of the Mercedes patiently and holds it open as he supports the center. “Please, Nicky?”

The blond stares a long moment at his captain before surrendering to his wishes and climbing into the vehicle somewhat awkwardly. He draws the seatbelt across his lap, careful to tuck it beneath the sling to avoid pressure on his collarbone. With his head resting back against the seat, his eyes feel heavier than they did before; he’s not even sure he’ll make the whole length of the ride home without falling asleep.

The motion of the drive is soothing - Alex seems to be driving more carefully (or maybe he doesn’t care as much), and he stares out the window quietly for most of it. The city’s lights around them seem a bit blurrier and slower to pass as he stares out the window, and the motion makes him feel a bit sick to his stomach, so he turns his head to look at Alex instead, quietly in awe of the man few know like he does behind the legend the whole city - maybe the country - knows.

“I love you.”

He’s careful in his drive, doing his best to avoid all of DC’s many potholes so as not to jostle his passenger any more than he has to, especially with the lines of pain starting to reappear at the corners of Nicky’s eyes. The ride’s mostly silent outside of the steady hum of tires on asphalt - he keeps the music off hoping it’ll lull the injured center to sleep and he can just carefully move him to bed when they get home so he can sleep off the worst of the initial pain. The lights blend into steady streams outside the window, and Alex doesn’t bother to hide the smile at his boyfriend.

Nicky’s head swings over to to face Alex. He lights up at the quiet utterance.

It’s been nearly five years that they’ve been together; and Alex can almost count on both hands the number of times Nicky’s said the words. He’s never doubted how Nicky feels about him, because it’s never been in question, but Nicky’s never been the sort of man who says the words simply to say them. He shows Alex how much he cares day in and day out without fail instead. It makes the times he does say it that much more special for Alex to cradle close to his heart.

Alex reaches over to cover Nicky’s knee with one broad palm, feeling the warmth of him beneath his hand. “I love you too _luchik_.”

The Swede’s eyes grow heavy beyond the point of resistance, his good hand gripping the top of Alex’s with a firm squeeze. “Don’t forget,” he begins, voice breathy with exhaustion as his eyes begin to roll back behind closed lids in the beginning stages of sleep. “You promised me head.” His body is limp in the seat, even the hand perched over Alex’s, as he finishes the words, mind slipping away quickly to the costly debt of energy from injury, adrenaline, and the mind-sapping painkillers.

He pats the inside of his partner’s thigh and then withdraws his hand as Nicky’s eyes start to close again. “Did promise.” Alex allows, chuckling to himself. He doubts the Swede will be awake long enough to cash in on that promise.

Nicky is all but dead to the world by the time the wheels crunch on the driveway, and doesn’t stir as Alex slams the door and comes around to open his. “Come on sleepy kite.” He coaxes. “Upstairs to bed, and trainer say you can have half pain pill before sleep.”

He twists his face in response, pushing to get out of the car on his own - and failing - before allowing aid from his lover. “No more.” He pleads, mind bogged down with the effects of the painkillers. “Can’t think.” Bäckström’s pride lies in his intelligence and wit, and under the haze of the drugs, he feels stupider than a mite being asked to goaltend against the winger hauling him around.

Alex takes Nicky’s weight and eases him out of the car; manhandling the limp blond as he slumps against him until he’s upright and then heads inside.

The stairs stymie them for a few minutes until Nicky wrangles his uncooperative limbs enough to help. “You sure Nicky? Really gonna hurt soon.” Alex’s voice is concerned as they get through the door into the master bedroom - the signs of its shared inhabitants in every corner of the room, from Alex’s D&G shirt hanging off the chair to Nicky’s Team Sweden sweats in a pile on the floor. He wrangles Nicky onto the bed and then drops to his knees on the floor to start to undress him for bed.

“Played through worse.” He dismisses the concern with a nonchalance that he’s sure Alex won’t like, but the drugged Swede couldn’t care less. He’s content for now, and he’s in the company of the one person he wants to be with, now and always. Alex drops and Nicky shifts onto his shoulder, with a bit of pain, and swoops in swiftly to kiss his linemate with unrestricted eagerness.

“Stay still.” Alex orders, pinning his hips with his hands even as he tilts his face to accept Nicky’s kiss. “Stop stretching shoulder, you are injured. Accept it, do what it takes to fix it without complaining, and get back on ice faster so can make best passes to best goal scorer.” Comes the stern rejoinder, parting just far enough from him to stare into those beloved green eyes. “No painkillers, fine. But take care of broken bone the way supposed to.”

He undoes the belt and eases Nicky’s trousers over his hips before he tugs them down and off.

Nicky falls back against the bed with a dramatic sigh, hiding the wince that follows the twinge of pain at the motion. “Party pooper.” He mumbles, lifting one of his feet to push playfully at the Russian. “What will you do without me? Going to be rumors that you’re on decline again.” He teases, eyes closing as he drops his leg on the bed, creating a soft ripple of movement through the mattress.

A soft laugh escapes him at that, lips quirking. “Been on a downward slide since oh eight haven’t you heard? Guess must be because of that crazy Swedish center they bring in. Backcheck, backstorm, what’s his name can’t remember, maybe you hear of.” He quips, rolling up to his feet. “Come on up the bed sleepy kite, head on the pillow proper like so can go to sleep.”

The center’s lips pull into a wide grin, one never been seen by a camera or even some of their teammates. For Alex, it’s a much more common occurrence. “Must be tough to peak at twenty-one, get paid so much to do nothing.” He slides up the bed at Alex’s command, pulling the comforter over him as he nestles into the bedding. “You’ll stay, too? Need you to be skates.”

Quick and efficient motions strips Alex down to his boxers and he turns out the light before slipping into bed with his intoxicated boyfriend. “Always be your skates Nicky.” He murmurs as he tucks Nicky against him carefully so he won’t roll onto his bad side during the night. “Promise.”


End file.
